The Old Boys

Immediately after coming home from work at the retail outlet today (it was an OK day, dead in the morning as usual, picking up after 1 PM and then dead again as of 4 PM), I spotted Emphysema Man at the upstairs window. I went up to ask him to front me smokes.

Whilst in his apartment, his nemesis the property manager arrived at the door and, to my utter amazement, they proceeded to have a civil conversation, which I figured was mostly because I was between them and preventing eyebrow ripout.

But no, we adjourned to the upstairs lounge (an indoor "perk" enjoyed by those who don't have a real outdoor balcony -- ask me which one I'd prefer?) and the boys, the old coughing boys, sat down to an apparently decent convo. I sat with them for precisely 20 minutes then rose, saying, "I am starving. I must make myself dinner." (Which was true. I'd had a great lunch but was... faint with hunger, some days are like that. But also, there is only so much I can take of these old dudes. They are... not in my age or my class. There, I said it. They just aren't. We get along for weather and stuff, but that's about it.)

As I stood on the edge of the stairs, I looked at them sitting companionably and asked, "Hey, didn't you guys used to totally hate each other and not talk at all?"

One of them answered, "Check my voice mail, 0317, you'll understand."

So I did, when I got home.